Before the war, I heard some shrewd feminists say that the frivolity associated with the life of women at the time when they have ceased to be girls and have "come out," is a matter of environment rather than choice. They went so far as to assert that if a worthier goal were offered, a majority would seek it without a moment's hesitation. For all my sympathy with feminism, despite my heartfelt conviction that man needs woman's help in the task of administering the world that lies beyond the home, I had doubts, grave doubts. I thought that those who said these things had gone a little beyond their brief, and I remembered the French aphorism, "la jeunesse n'a qu'un jour." It seemed to me that an innate knowledge of the time-limit was the foundation of frivolity, and here, perhaps, I was looking back thirty years or more to the radiant season of my own dÉbut, and was remembering how the girls who became matrons were expected to play the rest of their part in the life symphony on muted strings. True it is that I helped to post-date the passing of the girl and the coming of the matron, but in those feverish times we all thought that the race was to the swift.

It may be that this conviction coloured my views; I believed that for the vast majority of young girls with prospects of a good time, there would be no pleasure in serious endeavour of any kind: that a sense of responsibility could not precede the State recognition of women and a sweeping measure of educational reform. As recently as the summer season of 1914, I found the new players feverishly excited by the old, old game, and pleasure instead of losing its savour seemed to have widened its boundaries and assumed shapes more fantastic than ever. I heard girls who were standing on the threshold of their career prattling of the joys to come as though life did not compass within its horizon one solitary sorrow or disappointment. Women of experience are, I think, stirred by these enthusiasms in their sisters or daughters, or young friends: they have learned a part of life's lesson, and know glad memories for an inalienable possession. It follows that they rejoice to see those who are near and dear to them treading the primrose path in the spring of their years, realising that when they look over the old road in the autumn days, their memory will help to gladden it with even fairer blossoms. If we know youth for the season of mental intoxication, we are not the less grateful to the gods who grant it to one and all, and if we are quite honest with ourselves we have been rather a little sorry for the girls who are serious before their time. But, while so many happy children, for after all they were little more, were bringing their healthy appetite to the banquet of life, "dawn was at hand to strike the loud feast dumb."

The effect of the upheaval upon the girls who had been presented in 1914, or would in the ordinary course of events have made their dÉbut since, has been startling, and it has taught me that not only are the working classes sound at the core—I never doubted this—but the leisured classes are in no whit inferior. Only an insignificant minority pursue pleasure at any price, and find in the horrors of our time a medium for publicity or dissipation. Over the not inconsiderable circle that I have the opportunity of observing there came, in the vast majority of cases, a startling change. The opportunities for frivolity under the rose were accepted only by a few who are constitutionally and irretrievably decadent, or actually vicious. The others passed pleasure by, sought duty wherever it was to be found, and became supremely happy in its pursuit. They taught me to realise that my feminist friends were right, and that environment which could have moulded their plastic natures in one mould, had no trouble in moulding them in another.

To do full justice to the fortunately circumstanced girls of England, for I take it that what is true of London and many country homes will apply elsewhere, it is necessary to remember that they have known less of the horrors of war than their sisters of almost all belligerent countries. Some, very few, have heard one or two bombs dropped from air-ships, the rest have seen no more than the wounded men who are sufficiently well to be brought over to England. They cannot even have visualised the full tragedy of the struggle as French and Belgian girls must have done, and, above all, they are seldom imaginative, but just as they were prepared less than two years ago to enjoy as good a time as life could afford, they are now committed to the hardest tasks within their competence. What they have lost in pleasure, they have gained in self-respect, and a sense of true citizenship; above all, they realise that they are of signal use to the State in the hour of its exceeding great need. Part of the rÔle so long denied to them they have assumed, not only without challenge, but with acclamation.

They have one additional advantage in their new sphere: they have never known the pursuits of normal times. While the doors of the ball-room and all that lies beyond were still shut, the doors of the Temple of Janus were torn asunder. They have no regrets, they do not miss the flavour of what they have never tasted. Life is so full for them that if pleasure were within their grasp they would lack the leisure as well as the inclination to grasp it. The example of fathers, brothers, boy friends, is an unending stimulus; all those they love best are looking to them with a gratitude or admiration that no pursuit of pleasure could have evoked. They have realised the high tension of the hour, they have risen silently and unostentatiously to the heights. Such tragedy as has come into their lives—and the mourning that so many wear is eloquent beyond all speech—has increased rather than diminished their labours; it has brought them nearer to the actuality of things. Where one hoped that all would gather roses many have gathered rue, but they have learned to know it by the older name, herb-of-grace. They wear it as they work, and it has become one of the symbols of the bond that binds those who serve with those who suffer.

I have seen the girls of whom I write labouring with deft yet unaccustomed hands in the canteens, undertaking in the hospitals the menial work that falls to those who are yet untrained, giving to pain longer hours than they would have given to pleasure in happy times. They bring to their tasks the subtle indefinite charm that is the gift of their hour and was intended for a setting so different. Is it a part of their reward that their lives should not lack a generous gift of high romance? I cannot recall in any season over which my memory has control so many engagements and marriages as there have been of late. The old huckstering conditions would seem to have passed, the girls are no longer weighing chances, the men are no longer calculating coldly. Each sees the other at best. The girl knows that the lad who has given all and risked all for his country must be sound at heart, and that his scars are honourable; the young man knows that he cannot go wrong in choosing a girl who has left pleasure for duty, who has found high ideals and pursues them. These unions coming about in hours of deepest uncertainty, when the bride of one month may be the widow of the next, are calculated to bring out what is best in both, for the natural affection is leavened by mutual respect. I have heard worldly minded parents grieve, some have brought their tales of woe to my utterly unsympathetic ear; I rejoice in these marriages, and believe they are of happiest augury for the State. Surely those who wed under these conditions may hope to live on the high plane of idealism longer than those whose unions have been dictated by what is mis-called prudence, while the fruits of unions consummated in such solemn hours when the future of Europe trembles in the balances of God, will be a source of strength in the years to come. They will surely not be like the offspring of exaggerated comfort or monstrous luxury.

It seems to me, reviewing the accomplishment of so many girls I know best, that war, for all its tragedy, may well leave the poor remains of our civilisation better than it was in the season of our opulence. Without regard to money or to good looks some of the best elements of the race have mated, each partner to the union understanding in fashion hitherto unimaginable not only that the Empire is worth the best we have to offer, but that one and all, regardless of the world's favours, are bringing their sacrifice. The minorities, noisy or silent, with which we must hereafter deal, the residue of profit-hunters and pleasure-seekers, pass almost out of mind as one sees the extraordinary transformation that war has wrought in a class that was supposed to be utterly deaf to any call save the call of amusement. That there have been larger tributes to the national cause is a commonplace, that there has been a more striking one I, at least, deny.

Who was the cynic who said that woman was the last animal that man would civilise? I hope and believe he has not lived as long as his libel, and yet I could wish that somewhere in the realms reserved for liars he could be permitted to see a few at least of the sights that have gladdened and stimulated me in the past twelve months, ever since the women workers in the Empire's cause became fully representative of every class in the realm.